Death by Moonlight
by Typhlogirl
Summary: There is an assassin working in Goldenrod city...with psychic powers and a hatred of humanity. Dare you venture into the underground and visit him? One shot, rated T for language and violence.


**Death by Moonlight**

The room was cold, and didn't invite confidence.

The single light bulb dangling precariously from a fraying wire provided the only source of illumination, and it was clear it had seen better days. Occasionally the globe would flicker and, for a split second, all the shadows hiding away from the light would rise up to claim the stone, windowless space for their own, only to be beaten back when the bulb regained its composure. The blank desk was wooden, with chips and scratches running along its legs like scars. Its only company were two chairs, similarly wooden, one in front and one behind. It was in the front chair that the man now sat, trying to warm himself up in the face of this hauntingly depressing living space. But it wasn't the cold that caused him to shiver and tremble. It was the thought of the person he was about to meet.

They called him the 'Moonlight Assassin', and the romantic name fitted the owner accordingly. Famous in the underworld (or infamous, it didn't really matter which) for his efficiency and professionalism, he was known to be able to kill a person without being in their immediate vicinity. Not much of a claim to fame in the world of sniper rifles and infra-red technology, but that was exact the thing for which he was renowned. He used no weapons. He left no traces. He was like a ghost. And he wasn't cheap.

For a fee, the size of which depended on the security of the target, he would make whoever the client desired disappear. He could even give the client a choice on the cause of death. Heart attack? Brain haemorrhage? Blood clots? Any instant fatal ailment was no problem. The choice was free. A perk of the deal. A bonus gift.

A bit of…fun.

Two payments were made, half at the commencement of the deal and the other half once the target had been eliminated. He only accepted cash. No credit cards or cheques. Cold hard cash or no deal. Woe betide any man who tried to deceive the Moonlight Assassin with forged notes or fake promises. I.O.U's were not an option. Once he was satisfied with the authenticity of the payment, details were given about the requested style of death. He did everything from brutal revenge killings to carefully constructed political assassinations. No client was turned away if he (or she for that matter, he couldn't count the number of husbands he had disposed of) was willing to pay his price. Any business was good business, in his eyes, and business showed no signs of slowing down. He was throwing all the other hired killers in the underground into the harsh seas of redundancy, after which they quickly sank to bankruptcies locker. He was the dealer of death, and the customer's were quite satisfied.

It was these stories of amazing assassinations that had lead the man down through the winding tunnel's of Goldenrod's underground to this dank little room. He had expected something with furnishings that were a little easier on the eyes, what with the dough this guy was rolling in. _Everyone_ wanted him to work for them. He was a gangster's dream. He had only one condition though. He would only work at night, under the moonlight. It was this trait that had earned him the nickname 'Moonlight Assassin'. He didn't have any others.

A sudden chill seemed to grip the room, and the man shuddered legitimately from the cold.

_Flicker flicker_. Shadows.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, came a voice.

"What brings you to my humble abode?"

The man nearly fell out of his chair in shock, for across the empty expanses of the desk, a figure now filled the vacant chair. It was difficult to discern any real details, as it was shrouded in a chocolate brown cloak that covered the body right up to the hood that kept the face hidden in shadow. Under the cloak, the man could see that the figure had a slim torso, with the beginnings of wide, almost feminine hips. '_A woman?'_ was the first thing the flickered across the man's mind, but the voice emanating from under the shrouds of the hood quickly dispelled these thoughts, as it had a rich, masculine tone to it. The figure was positioned comfortably, as if waiting for his guest to initiate a conversation.

"Are you…are you the Moonlight Assassin?" spluttered the man, whose voice was thin and reedy, the polar opposite of the warm, full tone of the cloaked figure.

"That's what they call me, I believe." came the reply.

The man's eyes seemed to widen at this new knowledge, and a strange excitement overtook him. "I need you to take care of someone for me."

The voice immediately grew cold and businesslike. "Can you afford my…services is the question. I'm not cheap."

"I got money!" cried the man, whose body matched his voice. He scrambled around in his pocket for a while, before tossing a wad of bills toward the figure. It landed on the wooden surface with a dull slap. Like a snake, one shrouded arm slithered out slowly across the desk, and enveloped the money, not once letting any appendages show. He lowered it underneath the desk, and the hood inclined as the figure presumably counted the money, as a soft flicking sound filled the air.

"You'll get that much again when the jobs done."

The hood returned to its original upright position. "Judging by the generous amount of payment you have promised me, I assume the target is of some importance?"

"It's me brother." snarled the man, who was now the 'client' in the assassin's eyes.

"You want me to kill your own flesh and blood?" Far from sounding horrified, the figure's voice had a hint of amusement flavouring it.

"He ain't my flesh and blood. Not anymore!" The man continued to snarl. "Not after what he did to me!"

"May I enquire as to what his crime was, if it isn't too bold?"

The man waved away the pleasantries. "He squealed on me. Ratted me out to the cops. I'm ex-Rocket, ya see. Ten years I spent in the slammer. Ten-effing-years! All because that mangy sonovabitch had a good old heart-to-heart with the local constable about his 'disgraceful older brother'. I went through hell in that place. You know what the guards would do? They'd let the electric pokemon guarding the fences chase us around the courtyard, zapping us half to death. And all they did was watch and laugh."

"Then wouldn't it make more sense to have a vendetta against the guards rather than your brother?"

The man rummaged in his pocket again, and pulled out a crumpled packet from which he drew an equally crumpled cigarette. "You don't mind if I smoke, dooya?"

"By all means, smoke away." The voice had not lost its note of amusement.

The man lit his cigarette with a lighter then took a long drag before continuing his story. "Nah. There are too many guards I want dead. Can't afford 'em all. Besides, he was the mofo that put me there in the first place. And don't you go thinkin' anything. There ain't no lost love between us. Once he's dead, I'll finally be able to sleep peacefully."

"Perhaps it's not your brother's fault, but your fault for involving yourself in crime in the first place."

The man blew a stream of grey smoke at the flickering light bulb. "You're one to talk."

The voice seemed to smile in its pronunciation of the word, "Touché."

The man relaxed against the back of the wooden chair provided for him. "You ain't so bad, yannow." His drawl did not suit his thin voice, and made him sound excessively nasal to the point of comical. "From what my mates were saying, I was under the impression that you were some sorta monster or something. But I guess I can't really tell with that hood. Are you like a disfigured genius or something, like that ghost of the opera or whatever his name was?"

White teeth gleamed out of the darkness of the hood in a grin. "Would you like to see my face? It won't cost you anything."

Visibly interested, the man leant forward. "Yeah, alright. I wouldn't mind seeing the incredible 'Moonlight Assassin' in all his glory. Show us ya face."

"If you insist." The arms lifted upwards, the sight of the hands still obscured by the light material of the robe.

"Should I brace myself?" the man asked, sarcasm making his already nasal voice all the more grating.

"It is your choice." The material bunched where the assassin's hands gripped at the hood. Slowly, delicately, he eased the hood off his head, his teeth still gleaming with an unnatural whiteness.

The smile increased when his purple eyes watched the cigarette fall away from the 'client's' mouth.

"What the _fuck_?!" he screamed, leaping to his feet, the chair clattering on the stone floor. "What the hell are you?"

Mewtwo relaxed back into his chair, smiling contentedly. "I thought that would have been obvious. I am a pokemon."

"A…a…pokemon? Hell, you don't look like any pokemon I've ever seen!" the man spluttered, backing away from the sight before him.

"Would you have preferred the _Phantom_ of the Opera?" the psychic pokemon asked, his voice calm. The long sleeves of his robe fell away, revealing hands with three thick, stubby fingers on each. With some difficulty, he managed to link them together, and rested his chin on the platform they made, quietly observing his guest.

The man's breathing was quick and heavy, almost in gasps. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight before him. Something about this…this _thing, _pokemon or whatever the hell it was scared him. Maybe it was the way those purple eyes were watching him; with a cool curiosity that was slowly cutting through his nerves, already frayed from a decade in Johto's sadistic prison system. Out of everything his mind could conjure up, this was the last thing he had expected.

The man's panic was starting to annoy his host. "Surely I'm not _that_ hideous?"

Taking slow, deep breaths, the man fought to get his panic under control. The fact that the identity of the Assassin was so abstract, so unpredicted reignited his original reluctance to come face to face with the man…thing.

"Will you sit down?" It wasn't a demand. The pokemon gestured toward the discarded chair lying haphazardly on the ground. Slowly, the man wrapped his fingers around the wooden neck, and returned the chair to its original position, before carefully lowering himself down onto it. The pokeman smiled happily.

"Now, that wasn't too strenuous, was it?" The man made no reply. Seemingly encouraged by his client's zombie impersonation, Mewtwo continued to speak in a calm, optimistic voice.

"It sure does feel good to get that thick hood off my head; the material was cooking me alive under there." Despite this, the rest of his body was still shielded by the brown robes. "I should get air-conditioning in here. Goldenrod's climate is so unpredictable sometimes. Hot one minute, arctic the next." If the man had been watching his host, he would have noticed that the smile illuminating his face had suddenly grown cold, and twisted into a smirk. But his eyes were downcast, as if he feared to view the creature sitting sophisticatedly before him. Mewtwo began to lose his patience, and his smirky smile faded.

"I grow tired of this. You were interesting before you decided to stop talking. Let me try to reignite our conversation. Did I mention I had a visit from your brother?"

The man's head snapped up so fast Mewtwo was sure he heard his neck crack. "What? My brother came 'ere?"

The cold smile returned. "Yes. About three weeks ago. We had quite a discussion about you."

The man snarled, showing yellowed teeth. "He's always been good at talkin about me to all the wrong people."

"You couldn't be more correct, Derek." smiled the assassin.

Derek, as was the man's name, crossed his arms aggressively. "And just what did he have to say about me to you, of all _people_?" He did not bother to hide the contempt that soiled his tone.

Mewtwo's eyes gleamed, and he stood up. Derek visibly faltered slightly. The pokemon was taller than he had expected, and he now noticed that the robes opened up from the waist to flow around his large, muscular thighs. He leant forward on the table.

"You brother was right when he spoke about your stupidity, as you have made two very, very big mistakes." he hissed. "One, you have insulted me, and two, my appearance has obviously made you forget just who I am. Do you know _why_ your brother came to me Derek? He wanted someone gone. Someone who was a disgrace to him and his family, who had made them enemies that threatened his wife and children all because he was related to a man that had betrayed his Team Rocket squad to the authorities! Oh yes, I know the truth of your story! I know you escaped and left your team-mates to be captured by the police!" Mewtwo had now lent so far forward that his face was mere inches from the man's sweaty, pallid features. "The deepest circle of hell is reserved for betrayers, Derek." he whispered. "Your brother gave me a very special task. He wants me to do to you what you wanted done to him. Poetic justice, eh? Oh, and something else you should note."

Mewtwo moved his lips right next to the man's ear.

"_It's a full moon."_

The man gave an inhuman cry and fell backwards off his chair, madly scrambling for the door. He shoved his head through the doorway. Mewtwo curled a cloaked arm wrapped in violet light.

This time, Mewtwo was sure he heard the Derek's neck crack as the metal door swung inward to connect with his forehead, flicking the head backward and breaking the man's neck like a child would snap a twig. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

With a satisfied smile, Mewtwo reached into his pocket and withdrew a letter written in a neat, orderly hand.

_MA,_

_Since I am reluctant to visit you again (no offence of course, I would just prefer to wash my hands of this unpleasantness), I have enclosed the outstanding half of your payment. I trust you to finish the job. Do with the body what you like, it doesn't matter to me._

_Thankyou for your services._

The note was unsigned, but Mewtwo didn't care. With a flash of his violet eyes, it ignited in his hands, the smouldering particles floating down to decorate the cobblestone floor.

Since his liberation from Team Rocket, the cat-like pokemon had done some soul searching. It did not take him long to realise that he needed to exercise his psychic powers on something, anything. He wanted to develop them, perfect them. But he wanted to have fun at the same time.

Becoming an assassin was not the first occupation that sprang to his mind, and he was, initially, reluctant to pursue it as a career. To him, life was a fragile thing. But human life…that was different. Petty, disgusting little creatures, the race had done nothing but disappoint him since his birth. Granted, there was the incident with those few kids…but every species had its rare mutations.

He knew all about human greed, he knew all about human selfishness, and he knew all about human cruelty. He also knew all about the apathy humans felt toward each other, towards each others _suffering_. He would never kill a pokemon. A human was different. A human did not deserve the life it was blessed with. So he would help both the repressed pokemon and humans themselves. He would kill humans that other humans wanted dead. Less infuriating humans, big profit, and satisfied clients. Everybody won. Him most of all.

He had taken a passion to human literature to aid his understanding of the human mind, and the titles he had selected were both vomit-inducing and yet, disturbingly enlightening. The art of reading had come fairly easy to him, aided as he was by his psychic abilities. Every word he read in the various novels he perused excited his enthusiasm for his new work. Humans were such interesting creatures. It made the act of snuffing them out all the more enjoyable.

For it was the act of killing that excited him the most. He adored probing through the bodies of his victims with his powers, triggering the biological switches with their organs and muscles, cracking bones from the inside as to baffle the medics, reversing their blood flow to cause immediate heart failure, slowly tightening his psychic hold around their tracheas till they collapsed under the strain. He had read numerous biological text books, and committed each detail to memory. If he wasn't an assassin, he decided, he would be a surgeon, if only to explore the human body more physically and admire the many diseases and ailments that plagued it, most of which were self inflicted by the patient.

Mewtwo turned to examine the body that lay spread-eagled on the floor, and grinned. Another toy, another test subject, another exciting autopsy. He loved being able to claim the body of his victim.

He loved playing the coroner.

Suddenly, the soft sound of nervous footsteps began to emanate from the passage that led to his room. The next unhappy client.

With a quick wave of his arm, the body lifted off the floor, surrounded in pure psychic energy. Mewtwo waved his arm again, robe flapping, and the floor in front of his desk disappeared, revealing a dark gaping hole and a staircase leading into it. The feline pokemon gently, lovingly lowered the body down into the darkness. His fun would have to wait. Business called. He lowered his arm, and the floor returned.

Mewtwo smiled, and replaced his hood, enshrouding himself in psychic shadows once again.

The woman nervously edged her way into the empty room so alike a medieval dungeon. A spluttering light globe was the only source of illumination.

_Flicker flicker. _The surging shadows. The beckoning seat.

The appearance.

"Welcome. So how may I help you?"

The grin.

The deal with the devil.

The beginning of the end.


End file.
